


thnks fr th mmrs

by wastefulreverie



Series: PhannieMay Shots 2019 [18]
Category: Danny Phantom
Genre: Angst, Creepy, Dissection, Experimentation, Future Fic, Gen, Ghost Stories, Horror, Memories, Poor Danny, Science Fiction, Suspense, Vivisection, ghost story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-26
Updated: 2019-05-26
Packaged: 2020-03-17 16:14:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18968755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wastefulreverie/pseuds/wastefulreverie
Summary: Two hundred years well into the future, an impressionable GIW trainee is assigned to determine whether a antiquated project from the 21st Century is valuable enough to keep in storage. Left to his own wits, the trainee turns on the device, immersing himself in the memories of specimen 432004-DjFPh.





	thnks fr th mmrs

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Days 22 and 24 of Phanniemay 2019, Memories and Ghost Stories.  
> Title from Fall Out Boy's song "thnks fr th mmrs" (thanks for the memories)

The old technology was defunct; years beyond its prime, it was a miracle it even worked. This machinery before him might have once been state of the art, but now it was just an unimpressive hunk of junk. However, Michael had been assigned to run this particular machinery in order to evaluate whether it was worth keeping in storage or not. It was clearly one of the more… _bulkier_ projects from the twenty-first century and had been contained in dry storage for the past two-hundred years.

Michael traced his finger along the top frame of the machine, dust rubbing off on his glove. _Shit_. Dress-code mandated that every part of his uniform was perfectly immaculate. He attempted rubbing his glove on a nearby support beam to remove the dust. It didn't work very well, so he ceased his movement and dejectedly returned back to the old, dusty device that had blemished his glove.

Realizing that he was going to get dust over himself anyway, Michael popped open the top panel of the machine and peered inside. According to the blueprints on his wrist-projector, everything seemed to be in order. So, that indicated that it was probably safe to use. Which was good, because Michael was ordered to test the machine regardless of how safe it was. He closed the panel and took a step back. If he was going to use the machine, he needed a chair to sit in before he could plug in the Virtual Perceptor; a thin visor with wirepods that allowed him to hear and see the data that was recorded on the machine. Sure, it was a bit primeval for him, but it was the only technology that was compatible with such an old device.

So, Michael found a rickety office chair in the corner of the storage unit and rolled it in front of the large machine. He positioned it to where he could sit facing the machine, close enough to where his knees would probably press against the base of the device. Once the chair was in order, Michael fished out the plug in for the Virtual Perceptor and managed to find the correct ports to connect it to the machine.

Finally, he found one of the disks of digitized core fluid and inserted it into the data reader on the side of the machine. Digitized core fluid… _Jesus_ how archaic. That was back in the days where the GIW would melt down ghosts to their cores to extract memories. The practice was discontinued within their organization long ago, but the ecto-memory extraction technique eventually helped expedite human memory extraction research and procedures. That was illegal now, but it's insane how a _ghost_ research organization jumpstarted human memory extraction and eventual AI creation.

Once the machine accepted the disk, Michael took his seat in the office chair and lowered the Virtual Perceptor over his head and jammed the wirepods into his ears. Until he turned the machine on he was effectively blindfolded, so he reached forward and frisked the panel of the device, looking for the correct button. Finally, something depressed under his fingers and a transparent, red grid faded into sight. He could hear the disk revolving in the machine with effort, but it never faltered, continuing to spin and spin.

In his vision, Michael perceived words: ' **Experiment 432004-DjFPh** '. The words stayed on the screen for about fifteen seconds before it was replaced with more text: ' **Extraction Date Completion - 08-07-2012** '.

 _2012_? No, that couldn't be correct. Michael had read through all of the GIW's records and the earliest ecto-memory extraction had been in 2021. Maybe somewhere in the official data, the 1 and the 2 had been swapped when it had been reuploaded to the new mainframe in 2067? Or maybe, the GIW deliberately kept ecto-memory extraction procedures under wraps for nine years... now _that_ was sketchy.

The text faded to black before the screen started to pixelate and build a scene, a recording of a ghost's memories first-hand. From what he could tell, he was in a classroom of sorts. In front of him was the back of a girl's head, a vibrant, orange flower clipped into her hair. In his peripheral vision, he could make out desks, a whiteboard, and an ancient projector board with four styluses attached to the bottom.

The specimen - the ghost - was sitting boredly in this classroom, failing to pay attention to the speaker at the front of the room. "... in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet. So Romeo would…"

This memory puzzled Michael, because it seemed like just an ordinary classroom from a human perspective. If he had to guess, it was an early high school class due to the age of the students and the general environment. Yet, knowing where the memory took place did not help Michael; something certain about ghosts is that they shouldn't be able to retain any of their human memories, so why was this scene from such a seemingly human perspective?

The ghost groaned to itself as it breathed ( _breathed?_ ) out a blue vapor. The vapor quickly dissipated and the ghost straightened in its chair, suddenly unsettled. It forced a cough before raising its arm, impatiently gesturing for the teacher at the front of the class to notice it.

Finally, the balding man reading from the book at the front of the classroom noticed the ghost's commotion. He lowered the book and raised a brow, "Bathroom, Mr. Fenton?"

The ghost - who was named Fenton - shifted awkwardly, "Uh, yeah. Can I, sir?"

The teacher sighed, irritably nodding, "Make it quick."

Fenton pushed itself from its desk and began walking towards the classroom door. On its way there, it caught the eye of a dark-haired girl donning twenty-first century 'punk' style clothing. She mouthed to it, _'_ _Good luck'._ It nodded back and stepped through the threshold, into the school's hallway.

Once it was several feet from his classroom, Fenton broke into a room and careened into the boy's bathroom. Oddly, it glanced around, ensuring that it was alone deliberately breathed (again?) in relief. It turned to the mirror and Michael finally noted the ghost's appearance. It appeared male, with messy black hair and piercing blue eyes. It wore blue jeans, a white, cotton shirt, and red sneakers. A timeless, yet dated look. And not to mention, downright _peculiar_.

This ghost didn't look like a ghost; it looked much too lively to be anything but human. Unlike ghosts, this boy had a complexion that rivaled a human's and accurate body proportions. In other words, the boy in the mirror was abjectly _human_. So that meant that this person eventually died and became a ghost, and despite all research, could _remember_ his human life before he was a ghost.

Fenton raised his arms and muttered something under his breath. "Going ghost," he spoke. In the mirror, Michael saw a white ring appeared around his waist and then everything went black - the memory ended. _Just like that._

It was an abrupt stopping place, and Michael felt like he had been robbed; something had just been about to happen. What did that boy mean by 'going ghost'? What had been that ring of light? Michael didn't get much time to dwell on it, because as quickly as that memory ended, a new one started.

This time, Fenton was sitting in a dark, grimy room. He could tell that he was sitting on some sort of torn up mattress, but beyond that it was too dark to make anything out specifically. Fenton was shuddering, managing to keep himself upright but barely. He teetered back and forth on the mattress before hopelessly throwing his arms out beneath him, planking himself so that he wouldn't fall over. It was almost like he was injured….

Fenton groaned and bit back a harsh cry. He was still planking himself on his bed, refusing to lay down and too weak to sit up. Why wouldn't he just lay down on the bed? What was preventing him from doing so?

Fenton made an incomprehensible groaning sound before he mustered enough willpower to raise himself back into a sitting position once more. At that difficult exertion, he heaved until his breathing regulated into a steady rhythm. "Can't… lose track," he told himself quietly. His voice sounded raw and strained. "Four-hundred… sixteen."

From where he was sitting on the bed, Fenton managed to maneuver his legs over the edge of the mattress and use a nearby wall to pull himself into a standing position. His knees protested underneath him, wobbling under his full weight, but balance eventually won out. He stared at the barren floor as he crossed the room so Michael couldn't tell what he was walking towards… he had a feeling it wasn't good, though.

By the time Fenton looked up, he was standing at a wall far from where he had been… and Michael had to stifle a gasp. The wall was stained with hundreds of deliberate streaks of red and green fluids; rows upon rows of tally marks painted in both blood and ectoplasm. It was horrific and Michael was tempted to shut his eyes, yet he couldn't look away.

Fenton looked from the wall to his own shirt. Similar to the last memory, he was wearing a white shirt, however this one had a recognizable screen-print above his heart. This memory must be from when Fenton was a ghost because his shirt plainly said **'GIW Property'**.

Calloused hands shakily pulled Fenton's shirt up and Michael caught a glimpse of the ghost's torso… and suddenly it made sense why he hadn't wanted to lay down earlier. Parallel cuts evenly sliced across his stomach and around his ribcage, wrapping around his side and into his back. The oozed with rivets of red and green, blood and ectoplasm… _together_? How was that possible? Fenton was a ghost in the particular memory, correct? So how could he be bleeding blood? Unless… he was a special kind of ghost? A living ghost? That didn't make sense, though….

With one hand, Fenton held his shirt up and with the other he dug his fingers into one of the slices across his torso. He didn't even hiss, accustomed to the dull sensation of pain. When he retracted his fingers, glossy green fought with murky red and threatened to drip onto the floor. Fenton took his time finding a place on the wall and drew another tally mark, another day in captivity.

"'our-dred… s'teen," he muttered through clenched teeth, finishing the mark.

And with that, the memory faded. _Back to black._ And Michael was left stunned.

The next memory was from a child's perspective. In neither of the previous memories had Fenton been this short, so either everything was suddenly giant or Fenton was a child. He was standing in a living room (Michael had only seen rooms like this in history books), tracing his steps back and forth along white carpet. Fenton laughed as he rubbed his socks along the carpe, ran to the couch, and touched another young girl's shoulder. Michael couldn't feel it, but he could see the transfer of static electricity in the girl's irritated expression.

"Do you _have_ to do that?" she told him off. "I'm trying to _read_."

"Mom and Dad are still in the lab!" Fenton complained. "I'm _bored_ and you won't let me watch TV."

"The TV is loud and I'm trying to read," the red-haired girl repeated. "Go do something in your room. Mom and Dad will take forever anyways."

Fenton groaned. "I wanted to ask them a question, though!"

"Too bad," she rolled her eyes. "Just leave me alone."

And with those words, a door was slammed open in another room. Fenton turned and moments later, a couple wearing primitive HAZMAT suits walked into the living room. The woman was about four-foot-five, already much taller than Fenton; she wore a blue suit and red goggles that masked her eyes. The man on the other hand, was comparable to a living giant; he wore an orange suit and was at least two feet taller than his wife. Fenton obviously got his looks from his father - they both had black hair and the same striking blue eyes.

"Mom, Dad!" he said. "Jazz was being mean to me!"

The woman lowered her hood and goggles, revealing dark auburn hair and brown eyes. She raised a brow at her daughter, "Oh, was she?"

Jazz glared at Fenton, "No I wasn't! I only asked him to stop _messing_ with _me_!"

"She wouldn't let me watch TV and hid the remote!" Fenton protested. " _Mean_."

The man sighed, "Jazz, no hiding the remote. Danny, no bothering your sister."

 _Danny_. So the ghost's (or whatever he was) name was Danny.

Jazz and Danny rolled their eyes, "Fine." Once their parents were satisfied, Jazz picked her book back up and did her best to melt into the couch.

"So, are you guys done with the lab tonight?" Danny asked.

The woman nodded, "We should be."

"What's up, Danno?" the man added.

Danny flustered, suddenly nervous. "Well, uh, I wanted to ask you guys something about ghosts."

At those words, both of his parents' eyes brightened. _Were his parents some early-era ectologists?_

"Really? What is it?" his Mom asked, eager.

"Just when we thought you'd lost interest in good ol' spooks!" his Dad hunched down and placed a comforting hand on Danny's shoulder.

From the couch, Jazz cautiously looked up from her book and asked Danny silently, ' _Why?_ '

"Does everyone become a ghost when they die? Or like…" he touched the back of his neck, "do you have to have a special kind of death?"

His Mom's expression softened, "Now that's a complicated one. It - well… _no_. Not everyone becomes a ghost when they die."

His Dad gave Danny's shoulder another squeeze before letting go. "When someone dies, their natural destination is the afterlife - whatever that may be. Ghosts are people who get lost on the way there, who feel conflicted about their deaths. Naturally, nobody wants to die, but people who _strongly_ have a reason to stay on Earth are usually the ones who become ghosts."

"Like people who are murdered," his Mom elaborated. "Or have unfulfilled wishes in life."

"Oh," Danny realized patiently. "So if someone gets really old and dies in the hospital then they probably won't become a ghost? Even if they have a bunch of family?"

His Dad frowned, "Probably not, son… is there anything else on your mind?"

Danny shook his head. "Not… not really. It's just Tucker's grammy and… he asked about her. I didn't know what to say so I thought…."

His Mom flinched in comprehension. "Tucker's grammy… it's probably best that she's in a better place, not stuck here. Even if it is a nice idea to get to see her again, she wouldn't be herself. Ghosts aren't the same after they die, testy, violent, unstable…."

Danny sounded unsure, "Even good people are bad ghosts?"

"It's not their fault," his Dad assured. "They're dead so they don't know who they were when they were alive. They may have been good people, but ghosts aren't people. That's the difference."

"Okay," Danny agreed. "I understand. Thanks Mom, thanks Dad."

Before they could respond, the memory ended. The next memory, Danny was facing that dark-haired, punk girl from the first memory. Her lips were drawn downwards in concern. From what he could tell, she and Danny were sitting on a roof somewhere, at night. Their legs were dangling off the edge, but neither seemed fazed.

"That was a close call, today," she murmured.

Danny shrugged. "Valerie only got a new upgrade. I'll be more prepared next time."

"Is that all you think about it? Are you really not worried?" she asked, taking Danny's hand and squeezing it. Danny was wearing white gloves that illuminated light across her skin. Wait, actually… it wasn't only his gloves - all of Danny was glowing. This was another indication that he should be a ghost, but after seeing his blood Michael wasn't entirely sure anymore….

"What do you want me to say?" he asked. "' _Oh no, this is too dangerous now! I should stop saving lives!_ '", he paused, meeting her eyes. "I _won't_ stop."

"I know you won't," she shied away from him. "I just… _worry_ about you."

The words fell from his lips as easily as water slid from a leaf, "You don't have to. What I do is my own choice - I understand what could happen and I've _chosen_ to do this."

There was a beat of silence.

"That's what scares me," she reasoned, quietly. "Even though you understand what could happen to you, you don't stop. How often do you prioritize yourself, Danny? You… you don't have to let this burden take over your whole life. You know that, right?"

He took a few seconds to respond, but when he did his voice was almost as quiet as hers. "Of course I know that. I mean, you think I don't know how easy it'd be? How easy I could just… chase my dreams instead of this? I can _fly_ , Sam. I can just let go of gravity and just soar up to the stars, touch them… _explore_ space. It's everything I've ever wanted, to go there. And… for me it'd be as easy as walking. But I won't, not now anyway. As long as there are ghost attacks, I have to stay grounded. For the people here, for Amity Park; for you and Tuck and my family…." He took a shaky breath, "I know that bad things _could_ happen, but if I don't fight then worse things will happen."

She laughed, hollow yet genuine. From the angle they were sitting, Michael could just barely make out the tears in her eyes, "Why do you have to be _so_ stubbornly noble?"

He shrugged. "I think Jazz has 'officially' diagnosed me with a hero complex," he offered. "Personally I think it's because ghosts tend to have obsessions."

So… he _was_ a ghost? Well, clearly since he had to be a ghost to have had his memories recorded.

"I guess… that makes sense," Sam gave in, moving to grip Danny's hand again. She held on tightly and Danny squeezed back - both intimately accepted the severity of Danny's admission. And with that, a new memory took its place.

The setting dissolved and suddenly Michael was back in Danny's living room from before. He deduced that Danny was older than he had been last time he was in the living room since he was several feet taller. Even though years had passed, the room was more or less the same, save for a new couch and a thinner television monitor. Speaking of the television - _TV_ , whatever it's called - Danny was standing aside his parents, watching the screen in (unsettled?) apprehension.

"-eaking News with Tiffany Snow and Lance Thunder! Today in Amity Park, a shocking revelation about our town's ghostly hero, Danny Phantom, has been exposed!" On the screen, a blonde woman gravely yet enthusiastically recited the hook. In the corner of the screen, a picture of a white-haired ghost wearing a black jumpsuit appeared.

Michael recognized him immediately; that was clearly Danny, but… in a more ghostly form? In the last memory, he had been wearing a black jumpsuit and in the first memory he had been about to _change_. It all made sense now, that Danny was a ghost with two appearances; ghost and human. And apparently his ghost appearance was named 'Danny Phantom'... an obvious moniker for Danny Fenton.

The man on Tiffany's left nodded and continued the story, "2pm this afternoon on the corner of Oakland and Kingsley Avenue, Phantom was shot down by local vigilante, the Red Huntress, as he attempted to battle a ghost dubbed 'Technus'. When Phantom took that hit, he was knocked at least thirty-feet out of the air and was pummeled into the concrete."

Tiffany picked up where Lance left off, "Exhausted from his fight against Technus and wounded from Red's attack, Phantom passed out. At that point, a crowd had already formed to observe the fight, and onlookers were shocked when Phantom unconsciously transformed into _someone_ else. When he was injured enough, Phantom changed back into a living, breathing _human_ \- not quite as ghostly as we initially thought."

Lance nodded, "After a few minutes, he woke up again and promptly fled the scene with aid from his ghostly abilities. Now, this individual has been identified as Daniel Fenton, an eighteen-year-old student as Casper High School, son of Jack and Madeline Fenton, local ghost hunters. We are yet to receive a statement from the police about bringing in Daniel for questioning, but at the moment we can infer that these events will certainly not be ignored."

Danny's eyes didn't leave the TV, frantically scanning the screen in disbelief. So when someone else turned the TV off, he recoiled in alarm. He looked up and his parents were staring at him in horror, shocked at the revelation. In his peripheral vision, a red-haired young woman - Jazz - held a remote-like object towards the television.

"Is it true?" his Mom whispered. Her eyes were glassy, clearly in denial.

Danny hesitated before shaking his head, "I - I, _no_. This isn't… _isn't_ real - happening-" he choked, beginning to hyperventilate. "I'm not Pha- _not_ … a ghost."

Jazz moved swiftly, moving between Danny and their parents. "Danny," she reassured. She put a hand on his shoulder, " _breathe_."

"I - I - _can't_ ," his vision blurred, tears obscuring his clarity. " _Everyone_ knows. I'm gonna - gonna be-" he broke off, pushing himself away from his sister.

"Shh," she soothed, "it's going to be fine."

"Nothing will _ever_ be fine again-! I - I _messed up_ ," he stressed.

While Danny was panicking, his parents were still trying to process the news. "Danno?" his Dad asked, tentatively.

Danny met his parents' eyes with intense fear, and for a moment time seemed to stop. But then, Danny blinked rapidly and took even more steps backward. "You _know_ ," he addressed, weakly. "No, no, _no_ -"

Even as Danny moved further from his family, Jazz stayed in pursuit. This time, she gripped his forearm. "Danny, _stop_. It's alright, they're just… processing."

He shook his head, not listening to her. "Mom, Dad - _I'm sorry_. So, so, so sorry."

And with that, the memory ended - no definite resolution. Michael was thrust into the next memory before he could comprehend that the scene from before had been cut off.

He was back in a classroom, but rather than a dull high-school classroom, the walls were slightly more colorful. There were more cheesy posters and classroom decorations. That, and the students around Danny were much younger - probably about eleven or twelve. Middle school…

Danny was paying attention to the lesson, listening with vexed interest as the teacher spoke. "-our unit in Greek Mythology. We'll take turns reading the story as a class and then partner up to finish the worksheet," a brown-haired woman instructed. She was at least in her mid-thirties and was wearing a long, dark blue dress. "Would anyone like to volunteer to read first?" When no one raised her hand, the teacher rolled her eyes. "Anyone who reads gets extra credit."

And with that, several students raised their hands. Danny wasn't one of them, but paid attention to the story, reading along with his classmates. A girl somewhere behind Danny began reading, "From the beginning, humans had trouble with the gods. Most gods thought of humans as toys. But some gods found themselves interested in the human race. Some gods even made friends with the humans. One of those gods was a titan named Prometheus."

Their teacher signalled for someone new to start each paragraph. A short boy with glasses picked up where the girl left off, "The first people created by the gods were more or less helpless, naive beings that roamed under the rule of the gods. Prometheus felt sorry for them. So against Zeus's wishes, he decided to give them fire. Fire was important for many things - like heat and cooking, and hundreds of others. Thus, Prometheus stole a lightning bolt from Zeus and gave it to mankind."

"Zeus was furious," a new voice continued. "He ordered Prometheus chained to a rock as punishment for stealing his lightning bolt, and for going behind his back to help the humans. To make Prometheus even more miserable, Zeus sent storms to beat angry waves against Prometheus, helplessly chained to his rock. Zeus even made the sun shine really brightly now and then to burn his skin."

There was a moment of hesitation before the last speaker was called on. A boy wearing a beret beside Danny pushed up his glasses and began to read, "But the worst of all was Prometheus's daily punishment; every day Zeus sent an eagle to eat Prometheus's liver. If this wasn't bad enough, his liver regrew overnight, and Prometheus would have to suffer the pain of his liver being clawed out over and over…."

Danny audibly gulped. " _Harsh_ ," he muttered, eyeing the boy beside him. "I'd hate to be that guy."

The other boy nodded, wordlessly and the memory changed.

The classroom faded away and was replaced with a concentrated, bright white light. It was blinding, hanging over Danny's face with an unwavering intensity. From what Michael could tell, he was on his back, but that wasn't very helpful in determining _what_ this memory was. Danny looked around feverishly, eyes darting to the corners of his vision, searching for something. But what? Why couldn't he just sit up?

"-et me… go," he rasped weakly. " _Please_."

A white glove hovered tentatively in Danny's field of vision before retreating. Cold voices lingered somewhere far behind him, and the light seemed to tilt. Danny's vision slowly descended into tunnel vision, and the ceiling rippled like the surface of a lake, from the perspective of someone submerged underneath.

"Specimen contained," someone whispered. "Its struggle has subdued."

"Vitals placated. Keep the drip steady, don't give it enough to knock it out - just calm."

The light moved. Someone took the lamp away, leaving a dark blemish in Danny's vision where the light had been before.

"This procedure will redefine _everything_ we know about ectoplasm and organic matter…."

Danny tried to speak, but all that left his lips was a warbled moan.

"It's still speaking," someone pointed out. "Should we risk increasing the relaxant?"

"No, no… we can just sever its vocal cords for now. Not like they won't heal by tomorrow, unfortunately. It can be _irritatingly_ noisy."

There was a clatter that seemed to echo, metal sliding against metal in a way that grated one's ears. Michael was tempted to tear his wirepods out just so he didn't have to hear it, but he persevered - let himself be lost in the memory. A gloved hand dipped into Danny's line of vision, poisely positioning a scalpel above his throat. The hand moved but not moved; it slid around in Danny's vision like paint running across a canvas, inching closer and closer and closer to Danny's throat. Once the looming threat registered, Danny groggily began to throw himself around again, trying to desperately avoid being… _being_ -

The details were obscured in the memory, but the scientist carefully tore the knife across Danny's throat, severing his vocal cords with calculated ease. The pain was so intense that Danny's vision actually turned red, blackness edging at the corners of his eyes. And as his vocal cords were cut, Danny elicited one last earsplitting scream that was desperate and scared and _hurt_.

As the red in his vision began to fade, tears welled in Danny's eyes, effectively blurring his view of the ceiling and his surroundings. There was still a ringing in his ears, but under the sharp noise the scientists spoke, "Are all the tools ready?"

"Yes… _now_ we can begin…."

When everything faded to black, Michael exhaled in relief. That had… been intense - disturbing - horrifying-

 _Inhumane_.

And it was the GIW. That procedure they performed on Danny was still substandard methods that the GIW used today. That's what the ghosts saw, felt, experienced when they researched - no, _tortured_ \- them. And that was something that Michael was a part of, willingly. Ignorantly.

He'd spent the past two years working at this organization as a trainee and he'd just let the scientists' mindless drivel about ' _ghosts can't feel pain_ ' absolve him of his guilt. He'd been persuaded that ghosts were just mindless plants, unable of comprehending research - _science_. But Danny… this ghost from two-hundred years ago felt pain.

He could remember his human life, had friends and family. _Protected_ a town (Amity Park… sounded almost familiar?). He clearly had morals, insight, intelligence, _feelings_. And the GIW had disregarded that, used him to progress their research. Kept him in captivity for who knows how many years before stripping him to his core and _disposing_ of him. All while he was _sentient_.

Michael couldn't - _couldn't_ -

He couldn't stay here, when he knew. When he knew what they were doing. This was too much. He wouldn't be able to forgive himself if he stayed.

When he realized that the disk had stopped, Michael shakily removed the Virtual Perceptor and wirepods, curling up in the office chair as he broke down. Finally, he regained enough sense to eject the disk from the old machine, and actually read the inscription printed on it. It was a gray disk, plain, archaic.

' **Disk 1/14 - 432004-DjFPh - 08-07-2012** '

There were more memories, more footage from Danny's life that Michael could watch. He could put the Virtual Perceptor back on and lose himself in Danny Fenton's life, immerse himself back in that captivating horror. He stretched his arms, leaning back in the office chair and breathing shortly through his nose. He didn't need much time to think about it.

Michael had already made his choice.


End file.
